Evidently, the squire had never encountered a woman of Elizabeth’s mettle, for the man blinked in surprise. He smiled benevolently, as if he were a loving grandfather offering a sugary treat to a child, but Stowbridge’s tone was not so indulgent. “Of course, Mrs. Ridgeway thought kindly of her employer,” he said placatingly. “However, the woman does not recognize that an upper servant should remain silent.” A particularly false smile dressed the man’s lips.
Darcy recognized Elizabeth’s quickly rising ire. His wife’s eyes narrowed, and her lips flattened into a sharply defined line. When her jaw hardened, he placed a hand over the back of her gloved one as a warning to still her tongue. “Then perhaps, Mr. Stowbridge, as the shire’s magistrate, you might provide me the details of Samuel Darcy’s passing. I am also interested in the steps taken to discover my cousin’s assailant.”
Stowbridge’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “It is a sad tale, Mr. Darcy.” He shot a glance of concern in Elizabeth’s direction. “And it is not one fit for a lady’s ears.”
Elizabeth’s fingers intertwined with Darcy’s. “You do justice to the generosity and delicacy of your notions, Sir,” Elizabeth said with feigned munificence—a tone of which Darcy had been the recipient on more than one occasion. “I assure you, Mr. Stowbridge, I am not a woman of weak sensibilities.”
“Very well, Mrs. Darcy,” the squire said brusquely, his irritation evident. “Samuel Darcy was my dearest friend, and his passing grieves me greatly. Not a day passes that I do not wish his return so I might tell him how every former frown or cold address has been forgotten.” The tea arrived, and they waited for the service before the squire continued.
“The night of his death, Samuel joined me, Nicholas Drewe, and Liam Mason for a congenial evening. We played cards and spoke of Drewe’s latest work, but Samuel appeared a bit distracted—very unlike himself. On that particular evening, Samuel displayed a true want of all laudable ambition, of a taste for good company, or of an inclination to take the trouble of being agreeable.” An indefinable expression crossing the squire’s countenance told Darcy things were not all what the magistrate pretended them to be. Stowbridge was sweetening his rendition of the night’s happenings, but Darcy was uncertain as to why the man did not freely speak the whole truth. He hoped the magistrate’s motive lay in delicacy for Elizabeth’s weaker feminine sensibilities.
Darcy’s brows rose slightly as he scrutinized every word the man spoke, as well as the unspoken ones. “Do you know the source of Cousin Samuel’s distraction?” he asked.
“It is unlikely that anyone other than I took notice. I have spent a third of my life as Samuel Darcy’s friend. Except for his absence during your cousin’s many expeditions, Samuel and I have shared our memories. I have many fond recollections of our time together.”
Darcy had no desire on this day to listen to Stowbridge’s sentimental remembrances. He would make a point to call upon the squire on a future date to learn more of his cousin’s recent years. For now, Darcy required details of Samuel’s passing. “I do not wish to reject your memories as insignificant,” Darcy said encouragingly, “but Mrs. Darcy and I have heard the most horrendous tale. Please allay our questions with earnest answers.”
Stowbridge cleared his throat and assumed an air of importance. “Of course, Mr. Darcy. I have avoided mentioning the sordid details, for they are most distressing.” The squire closed his eyes, and his grief was evident upon his countenance. Darcy thought it the first genuine moment they had shared since arriving at Stowe Hall. “Samuel insisted upon walking home that evening. Said it would clear his thinking. Said he had learned something of a distressing nature about a dear friend. Said the evening at cards had reminded him of a ritual from his latest expedition. I do not know which of the two matters most occupied Samuel’s mind as he made his way to Woodvine Hall.” Stowbridge opened his eyes slowly. “We did not discover Samuel’s body until the following day.”
Darcy asked softly, “Would it have made a difference if someone had come upon Samuel after his attack?”
Stowbridge shook his head in denial. “The surgeon assures me it would not; yet, when I think of how Samuel must have suffered...” his voice broke in sorrow.
Darcy’s curiosity was piqued. The drama surrounding this tale had increased. “Then, the blow to his head did not kill Cousin Samuel?”
The squire reached for his handkerchief. He mopped his brow first and then wiped his mouth, as if shoving away a bad taste. “Evidently, Mrs. Ridgeway thought it best to keep her opinions to herself,” Stowbridge grumbled. Again, the bitterness with which the magistrate spoke of Samuel’s housekeeper rubbed at Darcy’s inquisitiveness. From his last visit in Dorset with Samuel, Darcy recalled a troubling rumor that had plagued his cousin’s usually cheery humor. Samuel had spoken of an acquaintance who had been accused of taking advantage of one of his servants. Had it been Stowbridge about whom Samuel had worried? If so, could that be the source of the magistrate’s disdain for the Woodvine housekeeper? Had the squire made advances toward Samuel’s servant? “The assault did not initially kill Samuel Darcy.” The magistrate paused solemnly. “According to the surgeon, Mr. Glover, Samuel’s injury was as unique as the man himself. The blow literally knocked your cousin’s head from his shoulders; yet, it did not decapitate him.”
Darcy’s hand caught Elizabeth’s. He held hers tightly in his grip. Such details would disturb his wife’s customarily active imagination. “How is that possible?”
Stowbridge replied, “Glover says he has never seen such a case, but he insists it is possible. He claims the skull simply rests on the spine, or some such nonsense. Samuel’s attacker delivered a strike, very much like one used in cricket. The impact lifted Samuel’s head from his spine. With no skeletal support, your cousin’s head drooped forward. Unable to raise his chin, Samuel could not take a breath. My dearest friend suffocated before anyone could discover him. Yet, even if we had found him in a timelier manner, Samuel’s death would have only been a matter of time. Mr. Glover assures me that no surgeon could have repaired such damage. He says all he could have done would have been to give poor Samuel enough laudanum to ease his pain while your cousin waited for death. Likely, if someone had found him and attempted to move him, it would have exacerbated Samuel’s suffering.”
As if seeking guidance, Darcy’s eyes searched the ceiling. He made a strangled sound deep in his throat. He had considered many scenarios, but he could never have foreseen something this out of the ordinary. He glanced to where Elizabeth sat quietly. His wife had paled, but she reached for his arm. She stared at him steadily. Her face twisted in horror. The fact that Darcy’s voice sounded normal when he responded quite surprised him. It was strange because he felt so detached. A man whom he respected and admired had died an unspeakable death. Had died alone on a country path through the woods. “I wish I had been available to comfort him,” Darcy said sadly.
“I am certain Samuel would have wanted that also,” Stowbridge insisted. “Yet, we must remember that God guides us to his door in His time, not in ours.”
Darcy’s breath caught in his throat. “And what of my cousin’s assailant? How has your investigation progressed?”
“Samuel’s attacker was not content with your cousin’s death,” Stowbridge continued. “Several days following the discovery of Samuel’s body, we found a man we assumed to be the killer. He was draped across Samuel’s freshly dug grave. Multiple lacerations crossed the man’s body. Part of your cousin’s coffin had been shattered.”
Darcy shook his head in disbelief. It was a crazy world in which they lived, one where a person’s final resting place was not respected. He asked incredulously, “How did the man broach Cousin Samuel’s crypt?”
Stowbridge explained, “This area suffered a series of storms in early March. Your cousin’s intended resting place had been extensively damaged by a fallen tree. The curate and I thought it best to bury Samuel in the founders’ section of the village cemetery until the repa
irs to his crypt could be sanctioned by the estate.”
“I see,” Darcy said tersely. But he really did not “see” how something as simple as addressing a man’s final needs could have gone so wrong.
“You will excuse me, Mr. Stowbridge, but I fear I am decidedly confused. How do we know the man you have just described was the late Mr. Darcy’s attacker?” Elizabeth asked before Darcy could utter the words.
“Who else could he have been? Most likely thought we had buried dear Samuel with his many treasures,” Stowbridge persisted.
“Yet, Mrs. Ridgeway assured us that robbery was not the cause of Cousin Samuel’s demise,” Darcy argued.
Stowbridge’s chest expanded with pride. “Mrs. Ridgeway knows nothing of my investigation. I have not spoken more than a dozen words to the lady regarding Samuel’s passing. We initially assumed the incident leading to your cousin’s death was not precipitated by a robbery. However, Samuel Darcy was known to carry one jewel or another in his pockets. Your cousin was always sharing glimpses of his latest treasure with the curious.”
Darcy noted the line of Elizabeth’s lips flattened in disapproval. He intercepted her likely chiding of the squire. Stowbridge appeared to have little tolerance for intelligent women, and the man’s brusque replies only intensified the situation. “Let us assume for the moment that my cousin lost his life because of his eccentric habits, and let us also assume that the deceased man you found in the village cemetery truly wished to rob Cousin Samuel’s coffin. Given these circumstances, please explain how the man was killed and who killed him.”
Stowbridge frowned dramatically. “Unfortunately, beyond speculation, we have few clues as to what happened, and as the deceased was one of the gypsies...”
“A Rom?” Darcy scowled. “The man discovered as part of this madness was one of the band of gypsies currently camping on my cousin’s property?”
Stowbridge said in contempt, “The gypsy leader awaits justice for the loss of his brother.”
“I see,” Darcy said evenly. This time his vision was clearer. He suspected that the squire had no intention of meeting the Roma leader’s demands, nor would the magistrate escort the gypsy band from Darcy land. The fate of the gypsy band remained in Darcy’s hands. “One thing more,” he asked after a brief pause. “Were there treasures hidden in my cousin’s gravesite?”
Stowbridge’s eyes looked everywhere but at Darcy. “No treasures, Mr. Darcy. Other than his signet ring and a diamond pin, Samuel’s body was unadorned.”
“Then it is safe for Mrs. Darcy and I to visit the cemetery to pay our respects?” Darcy reached for his gloves. If the squire had known Darcy better, the man would have seen how difficult it was for his guest to remain calm. Darcy despised those of an insensible nature, and Stowbridge screamed of imprudence.
Stowbridge grimaced. “There is one issue of which you should be made aware, Mr. Darcy. Although we found the gypsy’s brother lying across your cousin’s opened gravesite, we found no body in Samuel Darcy’s coffin.”
Darcy was on his feet immediately. “No body!” he exclaimed. “How long ago did this travesty occur?”
“Only a day after your cousin’s service.”
His hands fisted at his side, and Darcy’s heart seemed to falter, along with his reason. He shot a quick pleading glance at his wife, and, fortunately, she understood his need to be away from Stowbridge. “Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said softly before placing her hand across her heart for effect, “I fear this situation has plagued me more than I anticipated.” With her keen receptiveness, Elizabeth had sensed his tension and had come to his rescue.
With a deep steadying breath to calm his composure, Darcy gently caught her elbow and assisted Elizabeth to her feet. “Of course, my dear. The circumstances of Cousin Samuel’s passing have played havoc with each of us. Permit me to escort you to our quarters.” He gave Stowbridge a curt bow. “Please excuse us, Sir. I will call again once I am certain of Mrs. Darcy’s well-being.”
“Of course, Mr. Darcy,” Stowbridge declared. “Our womenfolk possess a different disposition from us men.”
Elizabeth clung to him until Darcy followed her into the darkness of the coach. “A different disposition!” she hissed. “One more word of female frailty, and I would have...”
“Have what, my darling?” His wife’s testiness provided Darcy a brief respite from the craziness surrounding Samuel Darcy’s passing.
“I swear, Fitzwilliam, I have never resorted to physicality, but Mr. Stowbridge brings out the worst of my faults.”
Darcy slid an arm about his wife’s shoulders. “I am very blessed to know all of your faults, Mrs. Darcy.”
For a brief second, Elizabeth glared at him as if she meant to argue, but then she smiled and swatted his chest. “You have long suffered at my hand, Mr. Darcy. I am thankful you have forgiven my foibles.” With that, she moved quickly into his welcoming embrace. The distraction would do him well for Darcy could not leave behind the idea that he had failed his cousin Samuel.
Darcy had arranged for a seaside cottage for their privacy. He had also hired a temporary staff to meet their needs. Despite his desire to analyze what they did and did not know of his cousin’s mysterious death, he dutifully escorted his wife for a walk along the shoreline.
“Is it not magnificent?” Elizabeth sighed as she gazed out over the harbor’s expanse.
Darcy had been staring at her, rather than the water’s glassy surface. “I find it the most beautiful sight in the world,” he said huskily.
Elizabeth glanced up at him. With her countenance no longer partially hidden by her bonnet’s brim, he could enjoy the flush of color creeping across her cheeks. “I meant the harbor and the ocean beyond,” she chastised, but her fingers caressed his forearm.
“And what makes you believe that I spoke of something beyond God’s hand?” he said wryly.
Elizabeth tutted her disapproval. “Do not think me a simpleton, Mr. Darcy. I know your most excellent mind, and I recognize that particular tone.”
Darcy smiled easily. “And what tone would that be, my love?”
“The one you use before...” she said with another blush, this one bringing a deeper red.
Darcy brought her gloved fingertips to his lips. “Before what?” he asked seductively.
Elizabeth leaned into him, and he gloried in how his wife responded to him. During April of the previous year, he had returned to Pemberley with his hopes of making Elizabeth Bennet his wife dashed by her venomous refusal. God! How he had pined for her! For months, he had suffered before discovering Elizabeth at Pemberley on a holiday in Derbyshire. His desire for her rekindled during those early days of August, and then his dreams were slashed to shreds by the elopement of his worst enemy, George Wickham, with Elizabeth’s youngest sister, Lydia. Making Elizabeth his wife would have created a family bond with Mr. Wickham, and Darcy knew he could not place his sister Georgiana in such a fragile situation. However, Georgiana had insisted that Darcy should find love. He still did not understand where his often shy little sister found her strength, but he was thankful to have Georgiana in his life. He could learn a great deal about adversity from her.
Ironically, he and Elizabeth were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, Lady Catherine De Bourgh, who had called on him at his London residence, and had there related the story of her journey to Elizabeth’s home of Longbourn. Her Ladyship intended to stifle a rumor regarding Darcy’s affection for Miss Elizabeth, and to discuss the substance of Lady Catherine’s conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter, which in Her Ladyship’s apprehension, peculiarly denoted Elizabeth’s perverseness and assurance; in the belief that such a relation must assist Lady Catherine’s endeavors to obtain that promise from Darcy which Elizabeth had refused to give. But, unfortunately for Her Ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise. It had taught Darcy to hope as he scarcely ever allowed himself to hope before.
He had consulted both his sister and his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and receiving their approval, as well as their encouragement, Darcy had immediately set out for Hertfordshire with the purpose of renewing his addresses to Elizabeth Bennet. Happily, she gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change since the period of Darcy’s first proposal, as to make Elizabeth receive with gratitude and pleasure his continued assurances. The happiness which this reply had produced, was such as he had probably never felt before; and Darcy expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love could be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eyes, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but though she did not meet his eyes, Elizabeth listened, and Darcy told her of feelings which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.
“Be...before...” she stammered. Elizabeth cleared her throat, hesitated, and then playfully struck his arm with her fan. “Before you...” Another blush touched her cheeks.
Darcy leaned closer, where he might whisper into her ear. “Before I take you in my embrace and have my...”
However, before he could finish, Elizabeth struck him again, this time with more emphasis. “Mr. Darcy!” she exclaimed in protest. “I am not some trollop, Sir.”
Darcy tightened his grip on her arm. “Elizabeth, you know that I delight in provoking a response from you, but I would never disparage your name. I love you more than life.”
She paused, and a frown crossed her countenance. “I know, Fitzwilliam,” she said contritely. “I truly have taken no offense. I suppose my mind remains on today’s revelations. Perhaps we should curtail our walk and return to our quarters. Until we resolve this dilemma, I doubt we shall be at our best.”
The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy Page 3
